Waughgasm

I suppose my impromptu Evelyn Waugh festival might have something to do with work avoidance - my current course on American literature regrettably doesn't appear to cover English authors, so my sudden obsession is of no use to all those other things I'm meant to be writing.

He is pretty flippin' great though.

As a missionary priest making his first pilgrimage to the Vatican, as a paramount chief of equatorial Africa mounting the Eiffel Tower, Dennis Barlow, poet and pets' mortician, drove through the Golden Gates.

The weekend started with A Handful of Dust (I can't fully explain it, but I go to pieces with love for this novel! Surely it has been medically substantiated that one can die from Dickens and loneliness [ok, and malaria]?) and now I have found myself among the English in Hollywood, in The Loved One. If I am still seeking to avoid study later in the week, I think it could be time for a Brideshead revisit (terrible puns optional).